


the way we were

by decidingdolan



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Fictober, First Person, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Retrospective, Second Person, based on a mix of the book and the film, bits of spoilers for the book, jumping back and forth between childhood and adulthood, nonlinear, shifting characters' points of views
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 03:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: daily drabbles from each of the Losers' Club members written for the #Fictober challenge.





	1. coke

 

 

 

 

_It never ends, the bruise_  
_of being–_

 

_\--Kevin Young, from_ “[Greening](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.poetryfoundation.org%2Fbio%2Fkevin-young&t=NjM3YWM0Njc3MDQ5Y2E3ZTY4NDFiMTY0ZTZiNjFlM2NiZjNkMDliNiwxVDRPcVFFag%3D%3D&b=t%3ARcuih5Tzi7mzzRzVY8kyyA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fdolanx.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163226556741&m=0)” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**1\. Bill**

 

Coke bottles used to be green, remember that?

 

In the late 50s. When we were kids. Blasted sunlight and tangled grass, way up in the Barrens.

 

I don’t remember it much. I don’t remember it now.

 

We stood in a circle, the seven of us. Cold and breathless and alive. Covered in grime and dirt and desire. There’s a little bit of that, yes. A little bit of Bev.

 

I flip my hand over and the scar’s still there.

 

“Promise,” was the word on our young lips. “Promise,” was the whisper heard over clasped hands and fast beating hearts.

 

“Promise,” was the invisible signature on a scraped hand and determined eyes.

 

“Promise,” was a singular, plain commitment to come back to this town.

 

“P-puh-puh-promise,” was the sound I made, as Stan dragged the jagged edge across my skin. Blood’s drawn, bright red, word’s given, short and uniform. Forget the hurt, never mind the pain. What we’d faced in the sewers was the worst of it all.

 

It stares at me, this crooked line on my skin. A simple word, a clear consent, a binding pact. Over an empty bottle of cool carbonated drink.

 

Promise, a word uttered, sounded, heard.

Promise, a word echoed, confirmed, trusted.

 

Carved into my mind since that July day.

 

Promise.

 

And I haven’t thought of It, of us, since years passed. Audra looks up at me, asks me if I’m okay. She stares as I stutter. She cries and begs me not to go.

 

I haven’t been back. Not physically. Not mentally. Not here, in my head. Not verbally—as it’s starting to happen to me again.

 

I tell her I have to.

 

I tell her I promised.

 

* * *

 


	2. jealous

 

 

 

 

_I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday._

  

_\--Lemony Snicket_

 

 

* * *

 

 

  1. **Ben**



 

It’s not the way he looks at her.

 

And it’s not the way she looks back at him. Cheeks aflame, green eyes aglow, winter fire hair blowing.

 

 _Voyeur, that’s what I am_ , you’re thinking to yourself, as you stand there. 

 

Her hand on his cheeks, their lips meshed together, tongues doing—whatever else grownups do when they’re…. _kissing_ like that.

 

You have your books, your newspaper clippings. Your New Kids on the Block poster (and only she was privy to that fact—thank God), and your library card.

 

You take refuge in the building when you can. You resort to solitude for comfort. You’re friends with yourself, before you even learn you could be friends with anybody else.

 

It’s Bowers and his gang. Them that chase you away. Boys that make you run.

 

Voices that haunt your head.

 

Even now, even now.

 

_Voyeur, and that’s all you’ll ever be._

 

You’ve told yourself this before, that her letting you love her is always going to be enough—just enough. It’s your fault that you stumbled back. Your mistake that you thought to look. Your luck to be stuck with stubborn feet that refused to move.

 

She’s smiling at him, rays of sunshine. Hand still on his cheek, caressing, feeling, remembering.

 

They’re in their bubble, their moment. You’re a passive interlude, a passing time.

 

You lick your dry lips, looking down. Mud-stained sneakers shuffle on the grass. Her ‘goodbye,’ to him sounds distant in your ears.

 

He answers, something akin to ‘me too.’ (Or was it your head?)

 

And you’re thinking of how her lips felt, tip of finger tracing yours and stretching that scene in your memory.

 

 _January embers_ , she said, as her eyes filled back up with life.

 

Beverly’s lips were pulpy cushions, pairs of pinks that electrified your nerves.  

 

Sure, it was a lip-kiss. It was a life-saving attempt. Nowhere close to her kiss with him.

 

In which she’s happy, content. In which she’s smiling, eyes aglow, leaning right in to kiss him, and kiss him again.

 

Lips on lips. Them lost in each other and you out in reality.

 

.....

 

 

But she’s happy, right.

 

She’s happy.

 

That’s what supposed to count. That’s what a voyeur like you’d be content with. Happy for.

 

 _I love you, Beverly_ , you’re thinking again.

 

_And that is enough. Has to be enough._

_For now._

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for stopping by, reading, and reviewing!
> 
> loves,
> 
> your ever humble fanfic writer,
> 
> x


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